


Ten Steps to Home

by dearxalchemist



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: 10 Drabbles, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7835371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A set of 10 drabbles. </p>
<p>"The scissors snip again and a piece of black hair falls down over the front of his shirt. She trims back the unruly hair, clears his vision. She pretends to keep a straight face as her fingers slip through his hair and measure out the ends. Her fingers linger and he closes his eyes. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Steps to Home

There is a steady pattern of rain echoing on the roof of their car and the grey skies around them mimic what she’s feeling when the Colonel adjusts the gloves he is wearing. She undermined him again. They have nothing to say to one another, the silence is full and heavy, it thickens the air between them. The car eases along the road, jostling her muscles, lulling her into a sense of security, but she keeps her wits about her. Then without warning, his head slips down and he rests his head on her uniformed shoulder. It’s a small comfort.

 

His fingers are scorched along the callouses. He has third degree burns under the edges of his palms, they span along his wrists. She’s never noticed, but now she can see every detail of him. His side is a span of scars, pale and pink, faded and healed. He leans on the edge of the infirmary table and instead of ordering her out of the room, he reaches for her. His hand hesitates and shakes. Before he can touch her, he curls his fingers into a fist. She looks away like to give him dignity in a moment of weakness.

 

His coffee maker is better than hers. The smell of fresh coffee fills the apartment and she leans back against the countertop, enjoying the moments of pre-dawn bliss in a cotton shirt that doesn’t belong to her. She wraps the sleeves around herself, but he unwraps them and settles between her and the coffee maker. The world around is dark and her hair is a snarled mess in his hands, his lips are warm. The small machine on the counter lets off a sound and it breaks down the illusion they’ve built around them. They go separate ways to work.

 

The gun goes off and he doesn’t even blink. She fires directly over his shoulder. The smoke is hot against his cheek. The smell lingers behind, he can’t hide the smirk that twitches at his lips. Pride swells in his chest. He doesn’t need to snap his fingers, doesn’t need to pull the particles in the air, he simply relies on the wondrous woman behind him. She is a breathtaking sight to behold, but he has to keep his gaze straight. She fires once more to the enemy. All of the men on the other side of that gun crumble. 

 

Walking the dog at three in the morning is a punishment worth taking. She looks better than he does wrapped up in the sheets, it’s a sight he wants to keep fresh in his memories, one he wants to dream about as the rest of the night ticks on. She needs sleep. He pads around her home, taking in the domestic life she’s surrounded herself with outside of the office. Here there’s no regulations, no fraternization laws, here there is only walking the dog and keeping the coffee pot full on a military schedule that keeps him on his toes.

 

Sugar taste better on her lips, even more so when it’s smeared across her cheek. Her cupcakes are left undone on the counter, chocolate icing is smeared across her bottom lip and down the cut of her jaw. She is a mess of flour, sugar, and butter. The kitchen looks like a battlefield, her apron has done little to protect her from the ingredients. He traces the frosting down her jaw and dips his fingers into the bowl on the counter, dragging those scorched fingers down her throat. He draws a trail down, watching her swallow. The bowl is forgotten. 

 

Paperwork is piled so high on his desk that it resembles mountains. Worst of all it blocks the view of the desk to the right of his own. It blocks out the golden head bent over her own desk, muffles the sound of her pen scraping across the papers, making him focus on his own work rather than hers. After going page by page, he can’t take the loss anymore. With a sweep of his arm he knocks most of the papers down, lets them float to the floor. The sudden commotion has the attention of all of the room. 

 

He pushes bruises into her hips with his fingers, she lets him. She draws red lines down his back, he lets her. They leave marks where the uniform covers. He keeps his hands on her legs, calloused fingers dipping between her thighs, scraping over the skin there as she is bent over the desk in a way that makes her moan. Her golden hair is a mess and he buries his head in the space between her shoulders, breathing in the scent. She’s warm leather and gunpowder, something softer under all of that assaults his senses and he loses himself. 

 

Scissors cross his vision. The sharp sound of the metallic tool fills his ears and he relaxes as she walks around him in his kitchen. He’s wearing a white undershirt and soft pants, she looks good out of uniform too, walking around him in small circles. The scissors snip again and a piece of black hair falls down over the front of his shirt. She trims back the unruly hair, clears his vision. She pretends to keep a straight face as her fingers slip through his hair and measure out the ends. Her fingers linger and he closes his eyes. 

 

He catches her outside of the window with a mug in hand. The soft breeze blows across the backyard and he watches her as she hangs another white shirt, clipping it on the line outside. The only downfall to the scene before him is that none of those clothes are his own. They don’t share a home like they share a bed. Something in his chest cracks and he fumbles to hold the pieces together when she glances up at him, smiling. He opens the window, begging her to come inside with the sound of her name on his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own. Enjoy this little fluff bit, though I don't know why Ao3 seems to think there's more than 1000 words. Trust me, these are 100 words each.


End file.
